Axis of Aaron (15 page)

More steps. Another gust, this one almost flattening him.
 

Ebon turned, subconsciously nodding his obedience as if the wind and ocean were conscious beings. They were right: He had to face Aimee, and sooner was better than later. He couldn’t just keep putting it off, hoping the problem would go away without confrontation. That strategy might work for back pain and amnesia, but it was worthless for afflictions of the mind or soul.
 

The wind pushed at his back, now rough. Now spiteful.
 

Go,
it seemed to say.
Go on, and be done with it.

The dunes loomed closer. This time Ebon allowed their approach, the wind nudging him forward like a shy boy shoved onto the dance floor by well-meaning friends.
 

He stood in front of the small, blue-gray, immaculately painted cottage, its facade somehow different than he remembered. His feet ceased their plodding. Again, a gust rocked him forward onto his toes, the wind’s breath repeating
Go
into his frosted ears.
 

So he went.

He could see Aimee’s silhouette puttering around inside. Somehow he’d hoped she’d have gone to the store or the flower shop and he’d be able to procrastinate. But there was only now, and only the cold November wind between them.

Ebon marched forward, unready to face whatever he’d done.
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Renovations

EBON FOUND AIMEE IN THE KITCHEN, holding open the door of a cheery-yellow antique refrigerator he didn’t remember at all. She turned at his footsteps, and there was an awkward moment while he waited for her to speak. He wasn’t sure what might have happened between them, so it was best to let her go first, and set the tone.
 

He stood with his legs together, feeling like an intruder in the place he’d been invited to stay through the winter, and tried to read her face. It was impassive, unreadable. Her dark-blonde hair was a mess, as always, and she was wearing what looked like a yellow scarf around her neck, its ends invisible behind her back. The scarf matched the refrigerator. She had a cut-off sock on her right hand, thumb protruding, like a glove without fingers. It was a thing she always wore while drawing, so as not to smudge pencils with the oils from her hand. She’d crossed her feet at the ankles as she stood, because she was a Pisces.
 

“Well,” she said. “You’re back.”
 

No help there. Neutrally: “I’m back.”
 

“Where have you been?”

“Out.” It was an evasive answer, but it was also trademark Ebon to be cheeky, to answer the given question and nothing more. The one-word reply bought him one exchange; she’d either ask “out where?” as a follow-up or get mad. But Ebon didn’t know in which sea he was swimming, nor the depths of its water.

“Right,” she said. “Well? Did you have a good night?”
 

“Um … ”

“Was it all you’d hoped for?”

Just tell her
.
Tell her you’ve had an episode and that you’ve no clue where the last two months went, or what you did during the missing time. She can help. She’ll
want
to help.
 

“I guess?”
 

“Wasn’t it cold? Did you get bitten?”
 

Ebon blinked.
 

Aimee looked around. “And come to think of it, where’s your gear?”

“Oh. I … left it?”
 

“You
left
it? Maybe I should rephrase that: Where’s
my
dead father’s
gear?”
 

Something wasn’t right. Again Ebon considered spilling, and was again stopped by some internal defense. He realized, quite suddenly, that he felt ashamed. He was weak; he’d wanted Aimee to think he was strong; he’d told her he could handle his own problems, but clearly he hadn’t. And now, it seemed, he’d been lying to her as to his whereabouts. He couldn’t half admit the truth. If he spilled, he’d have to spill everything. He’d have to tell her where he’d just been, because he now had a deep suspicion that she didn’t have a clue about Vicky. Was that good? Or was it bad? Were they still as platonic as they’d been when he’d arrived? A definite part of Ebon didn’t want that, had
never
wanted that. It was possible he’d merely lied, and equally possible that they were a couple now and he’d cheated. He didn’t like that option. It was too much like a certain deceased wife for comfort.
 

Ebon went for broke. “What are you talking about?”
 

Aimee closed the refrigerator door, then put a hand on each of his shoulders. Behind the refrigerator, the walls had been patched and painted. Had the quaint little kitchen always had crown molding?
 

“I know you’re distraught, Ebon,” she said. “But if you seriously left Dad’s tent, sleeping bag, lantern, and everything else out at the lighthouse, I’ll have to knee you in the balls right now.” She glanced down, making a show of raising her right foot onto its toe, ready to strike. Her feet were bare at the end of long blue jeans, each of her toenails painted a different color. “So let’s try this again. Did you bring everything back, or did you just decide to run up here and grab the car so you can go get Dad’s stuff before the wind blows it all out to sea?”
 

“Oh. I … ”
 

Aimee stopped his reply, her eyes flicking to the doorway behind him. A hallway ran next to the kitchen, and she was looking at its floor. He turned to see for himself. A large hiking backpack leaned against the doorframe, strapped with a rolled tent and what looked like a winter sleeping bag in a blue drawstring bag. A lantern was beside the pack. The gear was strewn across the floor, impossible to miss. He hadn’t carried it here, but how could it have always been where it was without Aimee tripping over it all night?
 

“Okay, good.” A small smile formed on her lips. “You had me about to knock your nuts into your throat. Don’t do that to me, Ebon. I love you too much.”
 

He had no idea what that meant. They’d always signed their many emails and LiveLyfe messages (not to mention their letters, back when they’d been kids and Aimee had sent them by the covert dozen) with
Love
, but it had always been friendly. Now she’d said it more pointedly. But when Aimee took her hands from his shoulders, she didn’t kiss him in play, and hadn’t kissed him hello. They were still only roommates — as recently, apparently, as last night, when he’d borrowed the gear and left it in her way to somehow not be noticed.

“So how was it?” She turned to reopen the fridge, this time pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “Was it freezing?”
 

“That’s a good sleeping bag.” Ebon hadn’t lied yet and would keep with it for as long as he could. The bag, from here, was indeed a good one.
 

“And you did your solo thinking? Man style? Did you make a fire and cook freshly killed meat? Did you turn the tent into a sweat lodge and smoke herbs to have a vision quest?”
 

“Uh, sure.”
 

“Did you get it out of your system? Can you sleep inside again tonight like a normal human being?”
 

“Yeah. I’m all good.”
 

Aimee looked at Ebon for an assessing second, seeming to ponder whether he was messing with her. Then she sipped her orange juice, apparently concluding that he had his quirks and seldom offered deep answers to deep questions.
 

Something caught his eye.
 

“Is that a spiral staircase?”
 

Aimee turned and looked directly at the wrought iron staircase in the corner. It seemed to lead directly up from the living room into her father’s old bedroom, which was hers now.
 

“Very good, jungle man. And this is a glass.” She raised the orange juice. “Later, I can show you a wheel and fire.”
 

Ebon wasn’t listening. He was slowly walking toward the staircase. He reached its bottom, put a hand on it, and looked up. How hard was it to put in a spiral staircase? Justifications fell into place: Two people working by themselves could probably cut a hole in the floor; the thing wasn’t plaster and hand assembled. But still, Ebon could see changes in the room above too, and even peeking outside he could see a new roof over part of the patio right where a deck off the mystery door above would go. Did it mean they’d built the deck too?
That
wasn’t simple.
 

“What’s up, Ebon?”
 

Ebon turned. Aimee was holding the orange juice in one hand and had the other on her hip. Looking past her, the entirety of the living room and kitchen area hit Ebon at once. The cabinets had all been replaced, including what looked like a few custom units nestled into the odd kitchen’s nooks and crannies. The bright-yellow retro refrigerator was matched by a much-less retro oven. The oven was no longer against the outer wall and had moved into the center of the kitchen, into a new island flanked by low, thin cabinets. There was a high-end cooktop (gas spider burners, a griddle, a warming well for sauces) above the oven, and a large stainless steel fume hood descended through the ceiling above it. Setting aside the logistics of adding a hood (the required structural work would be tricky and they’d have had to have cut through the roof), Ebon couldn’t reconcile its placement within the home’s floor plan. There should be a storage area and a corner of the bedroom he slept in directly above the hood. Was there now an insulated tube running through his room? What else had changed?
 

“Ebon?” Aimee looked concerned, setting down the glass of orange juice and taking a tentative step toward him.
 

Ebon was stepping forward, touching the stove as if to remind himself it was there. To move the oven itself, they’d have had to reroute the propane lines. They’d have had to re-mate the compression fittings and test for gas leaks. Did the thing run off a 220 electric line, or a normal outlet? Ebon didn’t trust himself or Aimee with relocating either.
 

“I’m … ”
 

“Hungry? Want me to make you something?”
 

“This is … this is a hell of a kitchen,” he finally said.
 

“Well … thanks?” She looked puzzled.
 

“You always said you wanted to do the work yourself,” he said.

Ebon felt lightheaded. Something was backward. Something was
wrong
. He looked behind him, noticing the new living room floor and what seemed to be a brand-new doorway off to the left just past the couches. Where did it lead? It looked like an interior door, not one to a porch. There wasn’t a new room added onto the house, was there?
 

“Sure,” said Aimee, not helping.
 

The room spun. Ebon wanted to sit but didn’t trust himself to stand again once he did. The floor was unsteady beneath him (the
new
floor, real hardwood — not fabricated laminate tiles), and he seemed to be floating. This wasn’t possible. None of it was. Not in two months on an isolated island.
 

“You couldn’t’ve gotten crews out here. Not this late in the year.” Ebon was still trying to say neutral things, but that was the last he had. He was seconds from ripping off his clothes and running around nude with his tongue hanging out and eyes crossed. Trying to hold on was
hard
. Surrender would be so much easier.
 

“No, I couldn’t have,” Aimee told him. “But I said from the beginning that I wanted to do it myself anyway, like a working meditation. What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to pass out. Want me to pour you a cup of coffee? Get you a bowl of cereal or something?”
 

Ebon sagged into a kitchen chair, losing the battle with his legs.
 

“This is a lot of work for two people in two months.” Even as he spoke the words, Ebon knew he was lying. Even the bit he’d seen wasn’t a
lot of work
; it was
flat-out impossible
for all but a professional contractor’s most motivated crew. They’d cut through the roof? They’d put on a second-story porch? They’d lugged appliances, staircases, and supplies into place, rerouted propane, electricity, and plumbing lines? Had it all been inspected? It must have been; their work would be visible from the outside, the neighbors were nosy, and the township was strict and in need of permit money.
 

Aimee shrugged.

“I think I need to lie down,” said Ebon.
 

“Makes sense. You just came back from sleeping, so why not sleep some more?” Aimee pouted, her expression somehow devilishly cute, accented by the bright-yellow almost-scarf around her neck. “Here I’ve been all night, alone in a dark house, eager for someone to have coffee with. But yeah, whatever.”
 

Ebon looked up, his inborn sense of obedience triggered even above and beyond his disorientation. It was the same trigger that almost kept him at Vicky’s (Did Aimee really not know about Vicky? Did he need to keep that a secret?), although that encounter had offered temptations that Aimee, so far as he could tell, wasn’t going to.